


Orbit

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And sometimes, when he looks at you, it feels like the world is ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orbit

And sometimes, when he looks at you, it feels like the world is ending.

Not always, mind you, but sometimes. Sometimes it feels like you’re falling through space and nothing can catch you, that you’re plummeting away from the sun and spinning out of control, but will always be pulled back into orbit by the star you circle. Sometimes you feel like you’re going to catch fire and burn, unable to withstand the power in his eyes and the ferocity in his heart. Sometimes, there isn’t enough air and you’re choking, unable to pull in a decent breath and gasping with each ragged inhale because how can you live when he is beside you, flames consuming all the oxygen in the room? Anyone who calls him cold is a liar - he is burning.

But sometimes, when he looks at you, you feel alive.

Sometimes, when you’re drowning in wine and you can’t tell if the buzzing in your ears is pleasurable of painful, he comes to you and you surface from your despair. Sometimes, he is hope embodied in man, and he raises you from your bitter apathy with cold hands and burning eyes. Sometimes, he must be an angel, you think, or maybe it is only the green faerie talking, because no mortal can be so beautiful. It never lasts for ever, these blessed reprieves, but they are enough. They save you.

Of course, it is not often he looks at you.

And when he does, rarely is it with anything other than disdain or thinly veiled pity. Sometimes it is with disgust, and you regret that last bottle of wine and so you drink another to forget about it. Sometimes, when you mock him and he turns on you, the glare smoldering in his eyes is nothing but anger and repulsion, and it hurts more than you thought it ever could – you numb the sting with alcohol and revel in the fact that he looked at you at all. It’s all right with you, though. You’re more than content to feed off of the scraps that get tossed aside, thriving under the harsh words and the bitter stares, because even the most meager of bones is better than nothing at all.

And if you hope the world is ending, then you deserve it.

You’ve been drowning yourself for so long that you don’t even remember what prompted you to drink in the first place, and you can’t bring yourself to care, because with absinthe in your veins, you are invincible. With the bitter taste of alcohol heavy on your tongue, you’re one step closer to oblivion, one step closer to nirvana. Only, when he looks at you, you feel a fluttering against your ribs, beating out a frail rhythm in your chest. Its name is hope, and that is a foreign word to you, light and exotic and tasting of stardust and the finest wine. It is short lived, of course, for even the most pure of doves cannot survive the harshest winters.

And if you are glad when the end does come, then nobody blames you.

Because when the first bullet punches through sinew and bone, it feels like salvation. You’d come to terms with your god’s death a long time ago, but when his hand presses yours, your sins melt away and you are forgiven. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, to die by his side, and he looks at you like he is proud of you, like you have done well and it is more than you have any right to ask for. The words of rebellion linger on your tongue like nectar, and his gaze is not tainted with disgust. And if you die with a smile on your face, then no one begrudges you that you met the Lady Death with open arms.


End file.
